RantSome: A Personal Soapbox Site

My life is an open book. This has been the case since I discovered the power of publishing on the world wide web, but back then (and this was back in 1993) not only did I not really know who I really was, I think I tried to paint a picture of myself that was not entirely accurate.

I sort of glossed over the fact that I'm bitter and sometimes morbid (particularly my sense of humor, which can be very dark, indeed). I glossed over the fact that I could be a raging psychobitch with the astounding ability to alienate or piss off everyone she came into contact with. Maybe I didn't fully appreciate these qualities, and they have improved greatly over the years (amazing what a complete breakdown will do for a person, eh?). Maybe, too, I was using the medium of the world wide web to make people think something that I knew in my heart wasn't entirely correct.

I am what I am, and that's all what I am, or so said Popeye, and I agree with him (although I'd probably use better grammar). I am multi-faceted, I am sometimes bitchy, I can be something of a diva. I'm also deeply compassionate, notably generous, occasionally thoughtful, generally passionate, and certainly intelligent. I'm a lot of things, all at once. I'm very full and well rounded (which is not just a nice way of saying I'm Rubenesque, which, of course I am). I'm very real.

Yeah, that's why I'm writing this, in fact. So what. Why do I do this? Why do I feel so strongly about flinging open the closet doors of my life and showing the skeletons to the world? Why do I feel the need to publically acknowledge a breakdown, a history of emotional instability (now greatly improved, thankyou), a tendency to be arrogant (I admit it, and struggle with it), and so on? What is it that drives me to publish this stuff?

First, I think I can say for sure that part of the reason I deliberately turn my life into an open book is because of my history in an abusive home. It was made very clear to me that I was never to speak of what went on in our house to anyone outside the family. "Don't air your dirty laundry in public," I was told. And for years I kept to that like the well-trained codependent that I was.

Eventually I found that I couldn't contain my pain and my rage and my outrage any more, and I had to find ways to exorcise it. Many of the ways I used were dysfunctional and even damaging, but publishing my experiences and thoughts was not only healing, it ended up being helpful to others (I know this from the email I've gotten over the years regarding my abuse recovery pages).

Another thing I found was that writing in a public forum actually helped me to define and discover myself. I got to see who I was, reflected in my own writings and through the eyes of others and their reaction to my words. That was both humbling and empowering.

I also find that people like to read what I write. I'm not entirely sure why, and I mean that. But the years of public life (as it were) have assured me that I do write well, and that what I write is worth reading, at least to some. I'm not claiming to be a great poet or some sort of Pulitzer Prize material. I'm just saying that I know that some or even many people like to read my ramblings.

The pen, they say, is mightier than the sword, and I think that's true. And the virtual soapbox may well be mightier than the pen....

That aside, I'm wondering if I publish simply to be read. Partly, I think that's true. I spent a lot of my years on this planet feeling like no one heard me at all (and to some extent it was true; neglect was a big part of my childhood). Feeling like someone's listening (even if no one is) offers some sort of comfort. A message in a bottle, as it were. Here I am, hear me, please!

I don't do this because I'm an egotist. I'm not that egotistical, despite what some people think. I had no self-esteem for years, and thought myself completely worthless. There was a time when I took some sort of pleasure from being "known" and from being liked by total strangers, but I eventually got over that when I realized that if they really knew me, they might not be so willing to want to be my friend.... No, I don't think ego is an issue. I don't really even expect that the majority of people out there in cyberland wouldever want to read this stuff.

I also rather think I have something of value to impart, at least sometimes. I have good insights, gained from years of sweat and difficulty, and I'm willing to share them. Sure, sometimes I just want to bitch and rant, but sometimes I think there's real value in what I have to say. I don't think this is especially egotistical.

A while ago, I made the conscious, deliberate decision to live my life in the open, without any ghosts to come back to haunt me, without any skeletons in my closets to rattle around and disturb me. I decided that if I published my thoughts, my life, my very self, then the ghosts and skeletons would be nearly powerless. If everyone already knows (or can easily find out) that I was once treated for bipolar disorder, no one can come back later and use it as a weapon against me. No one can spring some nasty surprise on me. No one can claim, ever, that I misrepresented myself.

My life is an open book for a lot of reasons. To help others, to offer insights, to entertain (and I can be entertaining when I feel like it), to serve (yeah, yeah, I know what you're thinking, but I really do donate time and energy and so forth, and I really do public and volunteer service, so stop it), to amuse myself, to define myself, and to protect myself with a big, bright, glaring light called TRUTH.

That's what God said to Moses, when Moses asked "What's your name?" (Exodus 3:14) and later Jesus said, "before Abraham was, I am." (John 8:58).

Well, theological debate aside (and this is not where I try to preach or give a Bible lesson, for that you should visit Shoshanna if you're into that or want to know more about my views on Christianity), I feel pretty much like that. Not to compare myself to God Almighty, but you know, I am who I am, too.

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I AM